Exoskeletal
by mochi buns
Summary: Two years—two years since the ache, the emptiness, and the cold mixture of drugs sent Jill towards a downward spiral she believed she couldn't recover from. But never did a moment pass without her wishing the waves had taken them both instead. Post-fall up to RE5.
1. Descent

After more than a year (or even two… or three? I can't remember) of not writing and uploading fan fiction, here I am, finally venturing back into that world… and it feels _amazing_, to say the least.

Lately, I find myself caught up in a variety of Resident Evil fics (as usual, because I always return to them whenever I need a dose of fan fiction), and the little bug of creativity bit me and placed this idea into my brain. This is just chronicling events from Jill and Wesker's fall until the final implantation of the device in her chest, majority from Jill's perspective. I know this is an overused concept and incident, and Jill's feelings and whatever may happen here is probably already familiar ground for many readers. However, for now, it's the best I can come up with and the one I got the inspiration to write about. If I come up with more original things and am able to go through with it completely, I'll post it.

Enjoy, then!

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I do not own Jill, Wesker, or anything and anyone from the Resident Evil universe. I do, however, own this story and account!

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_**Exoskeletal**  
Chapter 1: Descent_

It's the blood that catches Jill's attention first.

She notes with mild awareness how the crimson mercilessly fills the limited expanse of her senses. It flits from one half-open eye to another, traveling slowly down the battered skin of her face until it meets her parted lips. There, it rests on her tongue, seeps into her palette and inner cheeks. The taste is metallic and bitter; a fact that she is accustomed to but has never been fond of.

They're not the only places stained by red—the wider she opens her eyes, the better she can feel the sticky pool that gathered directly underneath. Its growth is aided by the push and pull of the waves that she knows encircle her, easily spreading the substance across the sands and carrying the liquid into the horizon beyond.

It's the sickening blend of pain and numbness that catches Jill's attention next.

A strained, whispered groan barely makes its way through her lips once she tries to move her right leg, finding the effort useless as the limb refuses to correspond to her desires. The same occurs with the other, and when she attempts to wiggle her fingers, her features contort at the sudden, electrifying pang that shoots upwards, from the tips of her digits to the top of her head. With suppressed horror and disappointment, she realizes her body's been rendered incapable after the fall.

Bones are broken everywhere—the human skeleton is not as strong as it seems.

At the very least, her spirit remains intact.

Though by the time the third event catches her attention, in the form of a man dressed in black, she begins to wish the waves had taken her into their unpredictable grasp instead.

The water splashes with every unhurried step Wesker takes, and Jill hates how she can't move away from him as he comes closer. When he stops, all six feet and more towering over her, it isn't difficult to notice the labored way with which he breathes. Nor is it hard to see the scratches and gashes scattered over any exposed bits of flesh, with blotches of blood clinging to the areas where his clothes were torn the most. Insignificant as the injuries appear to be, the male is hurt—isn't she supposed to feel satisfied with that?

However, Wesker can move—far better than she can, at the moment—and it doesn't take the female another second to conclude that he's nowhere near death.

She wishes she'd been stronger when she dragged him down his intended doom.

As if to test her endurance, his boot prods the side of her torso, and all Jill can formulate in response is a hoarse cry she gives her best to restrain. It only causes him to press further into her ribs, his pressure increasing as her limits do the opposite; the barest curve of his lips indicates any signs of her agony become his amusement. When he finally halts his actions, she knows the ebbing pain has been refreshed; now it's a thick blanket that threatens to seize her consciousness.

"Hm." It's barely a word out of his mouth, but the voice is unmistakably him.

"You'll certainly be out of commission." Even under these circumstances, the male never ceases in maintaining his calmness, and Jill wants nothing else but to punch the stability out of his system.

Yet the throbbing that resounds inside her skull gains momentum with every second that passes. Succumbing to the sensation, she thinks, doesn't seem like an unwise choice. And so she allows her eyes to close, shallow breaths reducing in pace as she permits the waves—the water and the ache—to wash over her continuously, without any physical hindrance.

"But I have other plans for you, Valentine."

It's the last thing she hears before the darkness claims her once more.


	2. Test

I noticed I'm really rusty when it comes to characterizations in fics (mainly how I want to portray the characters through my writing—what scenes and dialogue I choose to include and write)… tips would be appreciated. On, to the second chapter!

**Disclaimer:** None of them are mine.

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_**Exoskeletal**_  
Chapter_ 2: Test_

When she awakes, she doesn't know how much time has passed between the fall and this moment, but she sees there are no signs of inky oceans or castles on cliffs within her immediate surroundings. A blinding sheet of white has come to replace the scenery, and the contrast is so defined that, even through her grogginess, it's easy for her to distinguish she's no longer lying in the same area.

Jill is sure she isn't dead—everything is too _clean_.

Given her current state, it takes the woman three seconds to realize she's in what seems to be a medical room, her body supported by a small bed. It takes another three to comprehend the straps around her wrists and ankles, and a downward glance confirms that she's bound to the structure. When the rest of her senses alert themselves to the constraints, the struggle begins—teeth grit in determination, muscles pulling despite the leather restrictions. The bands don't budge, but she isn't fazed. The initial moments of failure serve to push her forward; forcing herself to continue with the attempts even when she's certain her flesh is steadily reddening from the pressure.

"There's no point in trying, my dear."

Shivers run down her spine at the sudden appearance of the voice. She was too engrossed in her activity, too high on the desire to escape to notice the man's silent entrance from the glass-enforced door of the area. But Jill doesn't stop, not until he's come so close to her that she feels the soft touch of his lab coat on her bare skin, causing her to pull away as much as she can.

"Bastard—" It's difficult for her to speak, she discovers, her throat itching with a soreness she swears wasn't there before. Whatever amount of venom accompanies the utterance has to be shoved out of her vocal cords, placed out in the open to strike at him.

Unsurprisingly, she sees the male's figure remain upright, standing quietly at the edge of the cot. His countenance displays no signs of being affected by neither her tone nor the word. Instead, with a spiteful look, Jill observes how his watchful gaze leaves her form and rests on the helix-shaped vial he holds in one hand, a sizable needle attached to its front. Her eyes follow the syringe as he slowly lifts it to his face, surely for no other purpose than to examine it carefully, before she sees his stare return to her.

Soon, Jill feels his unoccupied hand wrap around a section of her forearm, pinning it further down to the bed below, and it takes no time for her to begin opposing the force again.

"Get—_away_—from me!"

But the strength from a simple grip of his is too much for her nerves to handle, and despite the physical protests, Wesker successfully injects the liquid into her veins. A strange sensation of tranquility overcomes the female quickly afterward, though the anger and detestation have yet to dissipate.

"What the hell… did you do?" Formulating proper sentences is beginning to take a toll on her voice, and as much as she wants to lash out at the man, she knows she has to keep the speaking to a minimum. She watches as he calmly strides over to the other side of the room, methodically placing the emptied vial atop an otherwise bare tray. Her gaze never leaves him, especially when he resumes his place at the side of the bed, gloved fingers gradually—but too leisurely for her liking—beginning to undo the clasp of one restraint.

"A shot of dissolved clonazepam mixed with a little gift from Tricell—enough to subdue you temporarily."

Jill wants to reply and press him further on the matter, because discovering all the information she can endures as a top priority in her mind. Although as soon as her wrist is free of the constraint, she sits up, body moving on autopilot as she retracts her arm and delivers a swift punch aimed at his jaw.

But Wesker's hand stops hers when it's more than six inches away from his face, deft digits wrapping around her wrist—a late reaction she can immediately tell is deliberately executed. The edge of his lip turns slightly upward, and the change is all but unnoticed under her observant gaze.

"Though considering your particular condition, it may result in _other_ side effects."

It dawns on her that he'd planned this.

At that, she attempts to jerk her arm away, feeling beads of sweat roll down her forehead at an erratic pace. Contrary to the earlier, peaceful sensation, Jill now detects her adrenaline rising to levels higher than average—there's no other explanation for the unexpected surge in energy, something that allows her to move more wildly than before.

However, Wesker never loosens his iron hold, and the smirk playing on his mouth fully forms itself with each subsequent bodily movement she carries out.

"Perfect," It's another deliberate choice for him to drawl, and Jill does nothing to hide her contempt. "It works just as expected. I can only anticipate what P30 will do once we've administered it."

By now, she thinks her stare must be wild with raw emotions, like those of a jaguar on the hunt. The imagery is one she desperately calls to mind, even as Wesker's sunglass-hidden gaze bores into hers, because it represents control and grace and resilience, everything she's known herself to be.

There are no jaguars in her eyes—only disorder.

"_Damn _you, Wesker!" Within the span of two seconds, she feels her adrenaline has dropped. She thinks it's below normal now, because the overwhelmingly placid sensation has returned, effectively replacing her false sense of power with one of vulnerability. "You'll pay for this, I swear, I—"

"Save the attitude for an occasion that will prove useful to me. I assure you, there will be numerous opportunities." The smirk never leaves his face, even as she sees him press a button on a radio clipped to his lab coat. An urgent, rhythmic shuffling of heavy boots can be heard outside, she notes, but it's not a sign to give up.

Jill doesn't abandon the fight, despite the unwanted sense of compliance suffocating her mind and bloodstream. She has the time and the will to persist—

Then Wesker's guards are on her, and there's no longer a chance for resistance.

•••

The room to which she's been transferred is a temporary prison; she learns that after the first sixty hours or days or seconds—she can't exactly tell without a time piece—spent within its confines. But the new accommodations are far from comforting. Four bleak, rot-gray walls stare at her from all angles regardless of where she sits, the edges of the peeling color revealing only further decay underneath. The bed, built into the wall, is more pitiful than a typical hospital cot, and the broken, tiled floors have varying degrees of moisture, depending on the part of the room she stands on.

Considerable familiarity rushes through her, but she knows it's because everything in it reminds her too much of Spencer's mansion, of Chris desperately calling out her name from the edge of the windowsill.

With her insufficiently clothed back propped against one of the cold bedposts, Jill allows herself to think of him. She hasn't been experiencing such circumstances often, because the days she can remember being awake on are usually occupied by unwelcomed probing by Wesker and his team, and her failed attempts to battle against them, despite the drugs. So when fleeting moments of solitude are within her reach, she doesn't think twice about seizing them, if only out of the selfish desire to restore the remnants of her dignity.

She thinks of how Chris must be living right now, most likely continuing his missions with the B.S.A.A., regardless of her absence. She wonders about the range of emotions he felt after watching her and Wesker plummet to the ocean, how they may have affected his actions for the months that followed the incident.

She wonders if he regrets being the one left alive.

Only then does Jill blink, trying to quell the negative thought and to extinguish it from her mind completely. Under her breath, the woman repeats to herself over and over to be happy when it comes to Chris, because it's her life she traded for his, and there's no way she'll accept any other outcome. If he thinks otherwise, she vows to drill the fact into his mind until he begs for mercy.

If she sees him again.

The prospect that perhaps her current chances are slim hurts her, but she isn't denying that the possibility is still there, a lingering thread of hope she resolves to cling onto regardless of what may happen to her.

It's all Jill can do to push herself forward.


End file.
